


and we discovered that our skin is soft

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Space, Ender's Game AU, Gen, Pre-Slash, Space Combat, Werewolves in Space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 00:46:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Argent," Stiles says, and Derek snaps "No,” without even pausing to think about how he’s going to defend his decision, how he’s going to rationalize the immediacy of it. The feeling of failure sinks stone-cold in his stomach. He’s an army leader now—Wolf Army, created new just for him, Major Deaton said—he’s supposed to be better than this, better than some skinny, bright-eyed kid who looks like a Battle School cadet before they upped the age requirements.</p><p>(TW/Ender's Game Fusion AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	and we discovered that our skin is soft

"Argent," Stiles says, and Derek snaps " _No,"_  without even pausing to think about how he's going to defend his decision, how he's going to rationalize the immediacy of it. The feeling of failure sinks stone-cold in his stomach—he's an army leader now,  _Wolf_ Army, created new just for him, Major Deaton said—he's supposed to be better than some skinny, bright-eyed kid who looks like the Battle School cadets before they upped the age requirements.

His only saving grace is Stiles' surprise, clearly painted in a swathe across his face, sudden familiar burst of amphetamine-adrenalin in the air. It gives him a moment to—regroup, reassess the enemy's weakness, shore up his own (he doesn't need to look, already knows what they are, carries them in his blood and ignores the pull when they rotate round the dark side of the earth, veins too big for his skin). 

"No," he says, calmer, even if Stiles' gaze is flitting from his ears, to his mouth, to his hands. The first thing they learned after launch was how to control the shift  _in_  launch, and in everything that would come after: how to correlate their own proclivities to the distance from the moon, to let the little things out before they could hit the all-or-none point.

Derek's been doing it ever since he can remember, his mother smelling irritated and worried at his too early, too-wolf shifts; Peter looping lengths of cheap moonstone around his and Laura's necks, their version of child's play.

If Stiles is looking for lunacy, he's going to have to look somewhere else.

He points at her page, still open on Stiles' desk. "Argent's battle scores have been declining for a month. I don't want a dead weight when we have the pick of current armies  _and_ the launch group."

"Her scores are still consistently in the top 10, top five in human-only sims." Stiles crosses his arms—he'll need to size up in training suits, maybe finally sign up for a gravity combat class. 

Derek pushes the thought away, for now."Free Play indicates deep emotional instability."

"Free Play is fucking rigged and you know it," Stiles snaps, visibly stops himself when Derek raises an eyebrow at him, "oh, you know what I mean, everyone knows the algorithm, it might as well be. Derek, she just lost her  _mom_."

"So did you, once," Derek says, because he didn't get his own army at nineteen by being gentle (new Battle School age requirements, new standards, some ugly and unsatisfied part of his brain insists). 

Stiles doesn't even blink. "And look how I turned out, second-in-command to you."

"I'm re-evaluating my choice as we speak."

"As if you could," Stiles scoffs, and he's right, he's always right just like he is this time about Allison Argent, even if her name makes Derek want to lock the door to his room and bury himself in bed, as soft and safe and private as he can get up here, where he's expected to be a rock, and a constantly available one at that.

Derek doesn't respond, because either answer would be a lie. There's no one else as good as Stiles, and truthfully, no one else that Derek would rather have picked, but that's also presuming that he had the illusion of choice. This is Battle School, where none of them have ever known anything close, not since the day they were tested just before hitting double digits; for Derek, not since he was born, not since Peter and Kate ruined Laura for good.

"She's the best shooter this school has ever seen," Stiles offers.

"We don't need that." Derek doesn't look down at Stiles' desk, or his own—like he hasn't been constantly, painfully aware of an  _Argent_  in his den for the past few years. "Her tendency for individual missions doesn't work well with our strategies—she doesn't make sense, statistically—"

"Neither did I and neither did you," Stiles says evenly. "Perfect score on the qual tests by seven, full shift and perfect control by age five. And we're still here."

Derek feels like he's going to vibrate out of his bones, the constant thrum of the space station suddenly loud and grating, like thinking about breathing and then becoming unable to ignore it. Or maybe it's just Stiles. "We were—exceptional anomalies under terrible circumstance—" 

" _So is Allison_ ," Stiles grits out, "and the International Federation took her, and they took us, but she's wasting away in Dragon Army because Jackson Whittemore's a dumbass. We'd do well with her. Historically she's worked well with Lydia and Isaac; Boyd and Erica could do with some finesse. And nobody can beat her and Scott."

"I'm not here to matchmake your friends—"

"She makes Scott  _better_  and you know it," Stiles says hotly, "and we need Scott."

It's—infuriatingly true. Derek is the best sub-thirty shifter in the IF, and Stiles can tear a strategy down, then construct another one within minutes - one that works, no matter how ridiculous it sounds, and it usually does. But neither of them have the easy way that Scott has, to lead people into battle with a quiet word, a touch of the elbow; if they're going to be the newest, most disparate group around, they need that. And Stiles insisted on Scott within the first five minutes of conversation with Derek. "We're a package deal," he'd said, mouth stubborn, "as good as brothers."

Then he'd visibly started, when he remembered who he was talking to. "I mean—we're best friends." 

"I had a best friend too," Derek had said, "my sister." It was dirty pool, to remind a kid with no family about Derek's own, the Hales, infamous within every space combat circle. Stiles had struck first though, and he was too smart, in sims and assessments and overheard gossip, for it to be a complete accident.

Neither of them had apologized; neither of them asked for it, but they'd also stayed away from the subject of family since that day. Derek's not entirely insensitive. He's heard the rumors about a disappearing general and a ship at lightspeed, has seen the files for  _Claudia Stilinski [cause of death, DCS]_ to confirm that one for himself. 

Now he looks at Stiles, the circles under his eyes, new gauntness at his cheeks. If nothing else, he's with Stiles for good and they're both running on fumes as is. 

"Fine," he says. Stiles' eyes narrow immediately in suspicion—rightfully so, and it reminds him not to forget that Stiles is just as good as Scott when it comes to reading people, even if his execution lacks. "We take Argent, but we drop Mahealani."

"Danny? Aww, come on, what are you gonna do with that hole anyway?"

The look on Stiles' face is theatrically incredulous, and that alone is enough to let Derek relax a little, to know he's got this fight. "He won't be better with us than he is with Whittemore. Anyway, I have my eye on a girl from launch group, Cora." 

"Last name redacted," Stiles says, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully, "probably some military family, doesn't want accusations of favoritism - huh." He rocks back in his chair, and Derek fight the urge to roll his eyes. "That's actually—not a bad choice, it could work."

Derek  _does_  roll his eyes now. "Thank you for showing faith in your commander."

"I live to serve," Stiles grins, cheeky, "and she's not the best fit— _statistically_ , though she's young, she could, if we train her bottom up. Why her in particular?"

"I—" Derek considers arguing the numbers, all pieces on the board, but he's already lost once today to Stiles, for certain measures of losing, and— "I have a feeling."

Stiles smiles even brighter at him, as blinding as every one of the sixteen sunrises they see a day. "A feeling—" 

"Shut up," he says crossly.

"No, dude," Stiles says, unmistakably fond, "you and  _feelings_ —don't you get it? That's why we're gonna get Allison and Cora, that's what we've been missing. You did good."

Derek doesn't know what to do with that, it's been years and years since Laura showered him with affection and all he had to do was take it, too young and starved to do anything but. He's used to it now though, drought-hardened into desert, and he can't take the barrage of Stiles, his quick mouth and his stupidly young, brazen heart; who fights against Derek, but also for him. 

"Don't call me 'dude'. And emotions don't have place in an army—"

"Everyone else has an army," Stiles says, hard glint in his eye that has nothing to do with the moonrise they're passing, that is hardly tugging at Derek's control, "and we're going to beat 'em all, because we're building a  _pack_."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://bacarat.tumblr.com/) too.


End file.
